


Inspiration

by Reis_Asher



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Fade to Black, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hannor, Inspired by Art, Love Confessions, M/M, Painting, Post-Canon, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, hankcon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 15:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16518743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reis_Asher/pseuds/Reis_Asher
Summary: Markus gives Connor a gift - a painting of Hank and Connor in a tender moment together. Connor is moved by the image, but can't quite understand why. He stuffs it in a closet, uncomfortable with feelings he doesn't understand and worried Hank will hate it.After a month of hiding it, he realizes it's a crime to leave something so beautiful to fester in the dark.





	Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to every fanartist out there. You provide so much food for everyone and are such a major source of inspiration. I'm envious since I cannot draw even simple images. Sometimes you've given me the HankCon feels when I've been so down I've been unable to concentrate on reading fic.
> 
> This is for you, and all you do. Creatives feed one another, and DBH fandom is a bountiful buffet of fine delicacies and wonderful people.

Connor walked the length of the attic studio, admiring Markus' creative space. Sunlight poured in through large roof panel windows, and the bare floorboards were covered in paint. A sink in one corner was piled high with brushes that needed washing, and a shelf held hundreds of blank canvases.

Scores of paintings stood propped up against the walls. Markus had experimented with many styles and types of art, from abstract to landscapes, but Connor found he appreciated his paintings of people the most. He recognized many faces that filled him with positive sensations: the Jericho crew, Kara sitting with Alice in the church—along with others who elicited pangs of sadness: deviants who had been killed during the revolution, preserved in Markus's memories and now immortalized through his brush.

There was a lot of thirium-blue paint staining the floorboards.

"Have you thought about selling your work?" Connor asked. "You could raise a lot of money for the Jericho Foundation." He spoke to Markus out loud, preferring to do so even when he was in the company of androids. Hank had probably instilled that habit in him; he didn't like keeping secrets from his partner.

"I don't think I'm ready," Markus admitted. "A lot of these paintings are so… personal. Letting everyone else see them would be like giving them access to my memory core."

"You invited me here," Connor pointed out. "You didn't state the reason for your request."

"I painted something the other day and I feel like it belongs to you." Markus led Connor to an easel. A canvas was perched on it, covered by a red cloth. "I never did thank you for your help. Without the androids from CyberLife Tower, the revolution would have died that night." Markus gestured to the sheet, and Connor stepped forward, pulling the shroud away carefully.

He wasn't prepared for what lay underneath. It was a painting of him and Hank standing together. Connor's hand squeezed Hank's shoulder, his skin drawn back to reveal his white plastic fingers. Connor's mouth was slightly open, his brown eyes shimmering with fondness and compassion as he gazed at Hank. Hank's eyes looked troubled, but the smile on his face was so tender. He reached up, his hand looking like it was about to close around Connor's.

"It's beautiful," Connor said, the words leaving his mouth before he could even understand what had moved him so. He reached out, his fingers touching Hank's face on the canvas, trying to figure out what it was about the painting that made his fans fire up and his processor overclock, causing a warm sensation as unfathomable amounts of data and memories regarding Hank ran through his mind. A sudden yearning tugged at his circuits and he felt the need to return home as soon as he was done here. "What compelled you to paint this?"

"My mentor, Carl, once said that art is about interpreting the world. Painting what you see. You and Lieutenant Anderson seem to support one another, despite being different species. I haven't seen many healthy relationships between humans and androids since the revolution. Yours is the exception."

"Thank you." Connor realized he hadn't turned away from the painting. The urge to sit and stare at it for hours, admiring all the tiny details, was something he had to resist. Hank would be home soon, and Connor wanted to be ready with a hot dinner so that his friend didn't eat junk food yet again.

***

Connor untied the brown string and peeled the brown paper back, looking at the painting again. He wanted to give it pride of place in the living room, but it seemed presumptuous of him to redecorate Hank's home. Besides, there was something about it that was almost intimate, as if Markus had intruded on a private moment that hadn't yet happened. Connor wasn't sure how Hank would feel knowing others regarded them this way.

Reluctantly, he wrapped the painting back in the brown paper and tied the string. He walked into the bedroom and stuffed it in the back of the closet behind some storage totes. Hank clearly hadn't touched them in years, judging from the layers of dust Connor kicked up. He would show the painting to Hank when the time was right, but that time wasn't now. They'd been through so much together that they needed a period of mundanity to adjust to their changing world, and this painting showed something so far from mundane that it could rock the boat of their friendship far enough to sink it.

Connor feared Hank withdrawing more than anything, retreating back into his frosty shell that kept everyone else at bay. Connor would miss the lingering touches, the hugs, the warmth that seemed to radiate out of Hank and into him, making him feel a little more human each day. He returned that warmth as often as he could, hoping to keep Hank alive until the winter of his life could give way to spring. He was thawing little by little, but Connor knew the progress he'd made could be easily undone by intruding too far.

The front door opened and Connor walked into the living room, helping Hank with his coat. A soft smile crossed Hank's tired face as Connor's hands lingered on his shoulders, pulling the heavy coat off Hank's large frame. Connor fought the sudden impulse to bury his face in it. He wanted to inhale the scent of alcohol, ashes, and Hank's scent that permeated it, but he resisted and hung it on the coat hook instead.

"Mmm, somethin' smells good," Hank said, wandering into the kitchen as Sumo hung at his heels. Connor followed him and opened the oven door, pulling the chicken casserole out and carefully placing it on the kitchen table.

"Is something the matter, Lieutenant?" Connor asked, noting the fact that Hank winced a little as he sat down.

"Seein' you lifting that hot food without gloves on is giving me sympathy pain. I know, I know, you don't feel pain. You don't gotta remind me. Just—are you sure it's okay to do that?" Hank's hand shot out like lightning and grabbed Connor's, turning his palm over in his hand and inspecting it like he expected to see melted plastic.

"I am heat resistant up to a temperature of 500 degrees Fahrenheit." Connor squeezed Hank's hand and set it down on the table before laying down a clean plate in front of Hank and grabbing a serving spatula. He scooped the casserole onto Hank's plate until he waved Connor off, then placed the glass dish on the counter to cool.

"Good to know." Hank smiled and grabbed a fork, tucking in with a smile on his face. "Damn, this is delicious, Connor. Is there anything you're not good at?" He finished the meal in record time and sat back in the kitchen chair, folding his arms.

"Is that a rhetorical question, Lieutenant?"

"You're changin' the subject again. Well? There's gotta be something your folks at CyberLife didn't think of."

"CyberLife are not 'my folks'," Connor replied pointedly. "I was designed to be the perfect detective android. As a prototype, I had the capabilities of all the other models in CyberLife's range installed, so that CyberLife could assess which features were useful in my investigation."

"Too bad you _are_ the final version." Hank shot him a wan smile. "You're a unique model, just like me." He stood up and clapped Connor on the back before heading into the living room to watch television. Connor scooped up the plate, washing it in the sink while thinking about the painting. He wanted to show it to Hank, but it was difficult to calculate his potential reaction. Without concrete data, it was best to take a wait and see approach.

***

Connor tore the paper. It wasn't a surprise; the brown covering was so wrinkled after a month of unwrapping and rewrapping the painting that it was barely holding together. It was foolish to come and look at it each day when Hank went out to walk Sumo, especially when he could recall every detail and brushstroke with his perfect memory. Yet it wasn't the same as running his fingers across the canvas, seeing the colors pop, noticing new things he'd never paid attention to before like the wrinkles and lines in Hank's face and the way their likenesses were so accurate they could have been torn from a photograph.

It wasn't the accuracy that compelled Connor, though, but the way the painting made him feel. When he looked at it, he yearned for Hank's touch, longed to erase the pain in Hank's heart that was so obvious from the look in his eyes. He wanted to place his hand on Hank's shoulder and tell him he'd always be there.

Connor wanted to hang the painting and experience that feeling every time he observed it. He carried it into the living room, knowing he had enough time to mount it on the wall before Hank got back from his AA meeting. Hank always returned a little testy, but maybe the painting would make him feel better the same way it had comforted Connor for so long.

Besides, confining something so beautiful to the closet seemed like a crime.

Connor mounted the painting on the wall in an empty space between the living room and the bathroom, admiring the way the low light brought out the richness of the colors. The front door opened and Connor turned, feeling like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. He walked to the door to greet Hank, who looked wet and miserable. Hank shucked off his coat and tossed the wet load into Connor's arms, water dripping from his hair. He slouched past Connor on his way to the bathroom.

He paused to look at the painting, his mouth turning upwards into a frown. "What the fuck is this?"

"I'm sorry, Hank. Markus gave it to me. I liked it, so I wanted to display it."

"Take it down," Hank dismissively waved at the painting, shaking his head.

"Hank?" Connor scanned Hank's face, searching for evidence of his reasoning, but Hank turned his face away, as if he was averting his gaze from something unpleasant.

"I said take it down!" Hank strode into the bathroom. Connor could hear the towel rail rattle as Hank grabbed a towel to dry his hair. Connor complied, lifting the painting off the wall and retreating into the bedroom. He stuffed it back in the closet and closed the door, fighting his distress protocol as his LED glowed red and tears sprang to his eyes.

Hank appeared in the doorway, casting a long shadow over the dark room. "Connor?" Hank approached, and Connor wasn't sure whether to push him away or try to discern the reason for his visceral reaction in hopes of avoiding it in the future. He gazed up at Hank, desperate to know why he hated the painting, his thirium pump constricting in his chest like Hank had rejected him on a personal level.

"Let's see it." The anger in Hank's voice was gone, replaced by a more conciliatory tone. Connor opened the closet door and pulled out the painting, placing it on the bed. "I look so fuckin' miserable," Hank complained. "Worn out, broken, and sad. I see why you like it, though. You look so beautiful, perfect, and pristine."

_Beautiful_. The word pulsed through Connor's circuits, trailing along with a sensation both pleasant and uncomfortable. This had to be what humans referred to as an ache. Connor closed his eyes and reached out for Hank, placing his hand on his shoulder and retracting the skin like in the picture. "Markus said he was inspired to paint it by our friendship. That he wanted to depict us supporting each other." He used his free hand to point out the details, letting his fingers linger on Hank's painted hand. Hank continued to stare down at the painting.

"You shouldn't waste your life propping up a lost cause like me. You belong with your people. With Markus." Hank looked away from the painting and Connor. "You didn't win your freedom so you could cook me dinner every day."

"I like caring for you," Connor explained. "I—" He glanced down at the painting and noticed a tiny speck of damage in the top corner, revealing another layer beneath the painted image. Had Markus reused the canvas? He scanned the image, using his preconstruction abilities to piece together the data from the layer underneath and the hidden image revealed itself to him.

Beneath the final painting, Markus had painted Connor and Hank in a romantic embrace, their lips locked together in a passionate kiss. Markus's words replayed in his memory. _"My mentor, Carl, once said that art is about interpreting the world. Painting what you see."_

"Connor? Are you okay?" Hank asked. "You're staring into space."

"I'm—I'm okay," Connor replied. He turned to look at Hank, studying his features with a new appreciation. Unable to find words to describe these complicated emotions, he decided to trust his positive initial reaction to Markus' hidden work and leaned in to kiss Hank. He hadn't preconstructed this, and so the rightness he felt as his lips brushed Hank's was entirely unexpected. Perhaps Hank would reject him, and yet, he couldn't bring himself to regret initiating the kiss as his sensors lit up, a thousand processes decoding his thoughts and feelings on the experience of kissing Hank, and it was more than he'd ever imagined it could be.

Markus knew it and now he did, too; he belonged with Hank, he was complete with Hank, he _loved_ Hank. Not in some familial sense, but with his entire being, the sense of yearning he felt when he'd first seen the painting blooming outwards until he was sure he was full to capacity with it. His circuits electrified with what could only be termed euphoria as Hank opened his mouth, inviting him in, reciprocating the kiss with a low, involuntary moan in his throat that made fiber-optic nerve clusters tingle at the base of his spine. Connor slipped his tongue into Hank's mouth, processing every new sensation as he proceeded spontaneously down this bright and wonderful avenue.

Hank pulled away, inhaling with a gasp, his well-kissed lips turning into a smile as he cupped Connor's face in his hands. His bright blue eyes were searching his face, perhaps looking for some sign that this had all been a mistake, an experimental act that Connor now regretted.

So Connor leaned in and kissed him again, a little bolder this time, hands roving across Hank's back through his clothing. Hank gasped, eyes lidding and Connor detected arousal which his body matched in kind.

"Woah," Hank said, like he was trying to tame a wild stallion. He pulled back and placed his hands on Connor's shoulders, his eyes wide and glistening in the low light. "When did this happen?"

"I think I realized when I saw the painting," Connor said. "Markus gave it to me a month ago. I hid it in the closet until now. I was afraid you might have a negative reaction to it."

"Is that why you like it so much? It makes you feel things?"

"Yes. It reminds me that we're there for each other. My hand's on your shoulder, but you're reaching for me." Connor smiled. "Deviancy is still difficult to navigate. You're helping me as much as I'm 'propping you up'."

"Kissing me like that is a lot more than being there for me, Connor. Not to mention this." He reached down and squeezed Connor's arousal through his jeans. "Are you sure this is what you want?" He left the words unspoken, but Connor could almost hear the sound of Hank's low self-esteem whispering the words _"You could do so much better than me."_.

"I haven't been able to stop looking at this painting, Hank. You don't look worn out, broken, and sad to me," Connor explained. "You're rugged, handsome, and loyal." Connor ran his thumb across Hank's cheek, marveling at the texture of his skin, how the wrinkles and lines felt so alive beneath his plastic fingers. "I suppose every person sees something different when they look at art."

Hank rolled his eyes slightly, but his toothy grin stripped his expression of all malice. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Might wanna get your optical circuits checked out. I think they're on the fritz."

"I regret to inform you that my optical circuits are in perfect working order, Hank. I just happen to see the man I love. Markus saw it, and now I understand what he was trying to show me." Connor could almost sense Hank reaching for another self-deprecating quip, and cut him off at the pass with another kiss. 

When they parted, Hank's expression was serious once again. He glanced back at the painting. "I suppose you're gonna want this back on the wall. You do know it's incredibly vain to have a self-portrait in your own home?" He paused for a moment. "Then again, it is you."

"Are you implying I indulge in vanity?" Connor asked.

"Hey, it's nothin' to be ashamed of. I wish I was an artist. Though I'd paint the kind of pictures you wouldn't be puttin' on your wall." Hank grinned. "Care to pose for me?"

Connor loosened the knot on his tie and pulled it off, watching Hank's hungry eyes follow his every move. "Gladly."

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it, please leave comments and kudos if you can!


End file.
